It is the ugliest police station I have ever seen in my life. Not that I’ve seen many, thankfully, but this looks like a shoebox blown up to accommodate three firetruck-sized garage doors.
Inside, behind the wooden counter are a few office chairs and desks. One of the two officers smiles when he looks at me and says “hey I know you. You used to go to UMass right? You lived in Baker? I never forget a face.” I cannot read faces and my memory for them is poor.
Officer Baker remembers, in particular, the bent wings of the dorm hallway, creating blind spots at either end. He never liked that. He calls it a fatal funnel. I give him my name and tell him that I was an RA in Baker, and likely that’s how met, almost 20 years ago. We exchange paperwork. His eyes are blue and expressive. Then something in him signals caution. His reflections are quiet moments, like the processor of his mind has to concentrate on one task or the other. Officer Baker is always polite and professional, his concern is shrouded by a seasoned and well-crafted mask.
To make up for the fact that I cannot read faces, I read eyes and combine that information with body language and voice. I cannot tell if his caution is in something he sees now, or in the past or if it is because he does not see much of any expression in my face, which some people find alarming. When distracted I can forget to put up my own warm and witty shroud.
When I step outside the trees are waving, birch and maples and sometimes pine, drenched in the golden light of sunset. Behind the branches the sky is deep a blue that only seems to come in autumn.
I call this place the Owl Orchard. The total area is about 25 square miles, with a population of around 1,500. There are three part-time police officers, including officer Baker, so the state police are sometimes summoned for help. To the best of my knowledge there are only two residents I can identify as black men, including myself.
My boot sinks into the soft grass and soil. My legs feel fine, but the weight is digging into my hips a bit. I’m up to carrying 40 lbs during my practice runs. Lawn jockeys like Jocko weigh about 65lbs, consisting of concrete poured into a mold, then painted. My plan is to get up to 80 lbs to build more strength than the minimum to lift it, as well as for some buffer to help prevent injury should I need to move fast or fall down.
The weight on my shoulder straps and padded hip belt pulls me backwards and down, so I am inclined to lean forward a bit as I stomp through the woods. I have to go as fast as I can, as quietly as I can.
I assembled the rucksack for this mission: it is an ALICE pack, which stands for All-purpose Lightweight Individual Carrying Equipment. The rigid frame I am using, made of welded tubular aircraft aluminum which transfers some of the pack weight to the hips, is one of my cute upgrades. The shoulder straps and hip pad are also updated and much more pleasant than the original ALICE pack appointments. Nonetheless, moving around with The Tick, as the ALICE was known in its day, takes some getting used to.
The fallen leaves and grass and moss are wet. The trees, bark and all, and the tall ferns, are wet. The air is wet and cool and the forest is nearly silent… save for the sounds of my movement and breathing in the midst of soup thick fog. Fog so thick only one of my 4 flashlights is really helping.
I climb a little hill and come to a T, take the left, and down a little ways, across a swamp where someone has laid white screen doors down reaching from one side to the other. I imagine the screens are for the cold season, to help ice form evenly across the surface water so that a snowmobile can cross without getting stuck. Then another small hill, I notice I am so warm that I I’m sweating when the temperature is 40 degrees, but then I look up and stop in my tracks. Before me is a pile of freshly cut trees entirely blocking the trail. This was not here before. The pile is wider than the trail, which is edged with brambles. It is easier to negotiate going over the trees than attempting to cut around them, so I step up on one and step down into the fray.
I have to use some strength to pull myself over the logs on account of my pack, and for a moment I think of how much harder this would be if I had Jocko right now, because it is heavier and tall, which would be even more awkward. I stop when I realize that this pile of trees might be for me: if I were on my way back down this trail with the statue, even if I dropped the bag I would still be easy to run down. Anyone with a flashlight and a firearm would have a comically easy time ending this caper.
I struggle to back up, the pack is sitting on a log and I have to push myself back up just to turn around. I get turned, try to climb up, slip back down, then try to jam my boot between two logs, then pull myself over. I hike straight home.
The history of Lawn Jockeys is a little vague. It is a device to tie your horse to, dating back to the 1700s, thus a jockey for your lawn. There have been a number of designs throughout history. They tend to be made in caste iron or concrete. Typically standing at two and a half feet tall, they seem range in weight from 50 to 100 lbs.
I was able to find two histories for the Jocko-style lawn jockies, both seem false to me.
In the first, during General Washington’s preparation for his surprise crossing of the Delaware river during Christmas, a 12 year old boy, Jocko Graves, is said to have promised to watch Washington’s horses the night before the raid. Jocko’s original intention was to cross with Washington and attack the Hessian forces, but he was too young to go. The story goes that he died on his watch, and that the Jocko design is in honor of his sacrifice. There is another iteration of this story where Jocko is holding a lantern for Washington’s horses when he freezes to death. I was not able to locate a specific source for this mythology, so I cannot know how old it is, or who might have said it.
The second story concerning the origin of lawn jockeys comes care of a black historian. In Charles Blockson’s account, lawn’s jockeys could have been signs to runaway slaves of which household might aid them in escaping north. A Jocko with a green scarf meant the house was friendly, and might potential offer aid like a meal or place to sleep for the night. A red scarf meant the house was pro-slavery, and should be avoided.
The first story says that the place of the black man is to serve, and to die in service. The dead child is then rewarded with being remembered, that is, retroactive belonging. This narrative is entirely ahistorical. Washington freed his slaves in his Will, but early in his life his slaves fashioned clothing from burlap, for lack of other sources of materials for clothes. So he does not seem to me the kind of slave owner to reward the noble sacrifise of any negro. And I think if a black 12 year old child had actually helped Washington’s nightime, covert operation, it would be nationally known lore by now. Washington later ended up dying on account of this odd behavior around clothing.
The second story is also ahistorical. For a human to tell the coloration of one detail on a statue that stands less than three feet tall in total darkness would require a light source. It is possible that a runaway slave might be carrying a lantern of the time, though we might imagine more would more likely have a makeshift torch because they are easier to craft by hand. The light from either device does not throw far, so you would have to walk onto a stranger’s lawn at night, and reveal yourself illuminating this little statue, which by nature of its function, might be right in front of the home and within range of any firearm they might have at the ready.
What is most dangerous about the second narrative is that it is a black narrative. This is a story from a black historian that, among other things, provides an easy apology for white distance in the struggle against slavery. Should any slave believed this mythology they would be placing themselves in grave peril.
In mid-December, 1799, Washington came to dinner from working outdoors, where it had started to hail, then rain. Ever punctual, he sat down at the table right away, rather than changing out of his wet clothing first, which would have made him late. That night he developed an upper respiratory infection and asked an overseer to bleed him, which was a common practice in the day. The idea was that fever was a symptom of excited blood, so opening a vein would relieve the pressure. The first doctor to come in the morning also prescribed bleeding. The second doctor that day also prescribed bleeding. Washington had been bled four times when the third doctor felt perhaps they should try something different, but by then it was too late. The first president and hero of this country died that day.
My cabin sits near the summit of a hill and is surrounded by about 100 acres of woods. The driveway is about an 1/8th of a mile long of loose stone covering packed dirt. The driveway is lined with trees, moss and ferns, now brown and gold and red. I drive through this kaleidoscope of colors when I leave for work every morning.
I make my way down the hill, turn on to the road and am on my way when a police cruiser pulls me over. I cannot recall if they were on the side of the road or passed me in the opposite lane then turned. Officer Baker steps up, just behind my shoulder such that turning my head to the left is barely enough to see him.
“Good morning Mr. Sparks, I just wanted to give you this.” He hands me my brand new Concealed Carry License. “You know I tried to come to your house but I couldn’t find your address.” I explain that my driveway actually extends into the next town, but that the property lies in this town. Momentary pause. He manages to wrap a warmish smile around concerned eyes. “Have a nice day Mr. Sparks.” Officer Baker returns to his cruiser and I make my way to work.
About two hundred people are milling about the town fair. It is split into two sides by a road, the road is blocked with a cruiser, a sign and some cones.
The air is filled with the sound of a duet of young fiddlers. At 4 P.M. they will close the parking lot of the public library for the pumpkin roll. The local vocational schools and scout troops have tables, but only the former are selling cookies. People of all ages are walking together. Families with children running about at ballistic speeds. Women who seem like old friends meeting and walking together, the routine re-introduction to children who have grown so fast. I stroll by the largest congregation of people grouped between the hammer toss and cowpie bingo.
Lonely against the sky, a few amber-to-burnt ochre offerings flutter as they fall, their sweet autumn perfume made more so with the trace of last night’s rain, still clinging to the leaves.
Soda in a can, bottled water, men of various design and displacement slowly trolling up and down the grassy hill behind strollers, attached at the wrist to children. Convoy duty. Hotdogs and hamburgers are underway replenishments during lazy patrols.
The pulled pork sandwiches aren’t terrible.
Earlier…
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, running things through. Jocko weighs 65 lbs and rests ~1 mile away, through wooded trails, some foot paths but mostly ATV trails. There are dozens of trails interconnecting the land, some lead to the river, others lead to people’s backyards, some seem to dead end nowhere.
Laura has told so many people about Jacko that I hear about it from other people, despite that I literally live in a cabin in the woods on a mountain two towns over. She wants to shoot me as a subject in a project she calls “landscape of racism.” Laura refuses to encrypt our messages, so if caught the police may ask her to open it in exchange for being released. It is likely only I will be held responsible, which in this case is appropriate. Her work is already published online through her website. Her studio is a 20 minute drive from my cabin. Her prints are often hanging in her building hallway for neighbors and passersby alike to appreciate.
I pass two Confederate flags on my running route, neither are the house on the land where Jocko resides. My cabin is surrounded by so many gun owners that there is a concert of firearms every Sunday, if the weather is nice, like it is today.
The police already know me. I am one of two black men I’ve seen in town. The total population is around 1,500 people.
I assess I am already compromised. That day we found it, to have left the cabin without any gear is not merely anomalous but heretical, something that does not and should not happen.
If the mission is successful, photo prints of me with Jocko would be distributed under her “landscape of racism” project. The owner of the property, and the police, will surely know where and who.
I am compromised. I am alone. The trees dance without noticing.
In the moment of leaving my cabin I forgot myself. I gave up my trust and I didn’t even know it or recognize anything had changed. My gear used to be so important it was like a second skin. Laura coming over for the sake of exploring should have meant I was prepared, but in this case it was the opposite.
Outside,
The branches reach into the sky in their ritual of disrobing, hands reaching up, up into the cerulean cauldron, casting shallow shadows across my cabin ceiling, its stained glass adds a touch of holiness to the moment while shades of branches become more like spider legs on the white ceiling
the sounds of gun fire in the distance create a dissassociative tarentello
someone has a pre-ban automatic, or would like to imagine they do
a sound like tact, tact, tact, tact rolls over the hills
when wind gathers leaves in a sort gust, the trees sounds like the tide, and the leaves rushing past my cabin sound like rain.
another rifle, high intermediate caliber
tops of trees
some bare, others still shedding like
calling the cold
year after year
century after century
the shadows dances across the ceiling
miming the celebration
projecting their revelation
stirring
turn of time
they
dance naked for release, the long night
branches stretched upward like hands
making this demand of the sky
that the circle might be complete,
that the day of this year be finished,
that sleep be finally granted.
Winter does not come to rural New England from another place,
it reborn from here every autumn,
and the will of the cold comes up from the earth,
holding ransom any ease and all sound.
That’s when I realize Jocko reminds me of my dad. He was a concrete clown of sorts, whose brutality was comically constant.
Also see:
The Relic, part 1 The Forest